Page 54 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

“Oh, but I am,” Matvei sneers.

A gunshot cracks the air.

The chandelier explodes, raining crystal like a thousand falling stars. Smoke and chaos swallow the room whole. I can’t think—can barely breathe—as bullets rip the space apart.

A round punches through the table inches from my face. I curl tighter, shielding the only thing that matters now.Protect the baby. Protect the baby.Nothing else matters. Not the gowns. Not the club. Just the heartbeat I haven’t even heard yet.

Then—hands.

Rough. Unforgiving.

Matvei yanks me upright, cold steel pressing to my temple. “Back off!” he snarls. “Or I’ll paint this place with her brain.”

Everything narrows—his grip, the cold muzzle, the air I can’t seem to inhale. My hands cradle my belly, trembling.

And then I see him.

Vasiliy steps through the smoke like judgment incarnate. Blood stains his suit. A knife gleams in one hand. His eyes—those cold, unrelenting eyes—find me, then Matvei.

Then the gun at my head.

“Are you pregnant?” Matvei hisses, rancid breath against my neck. “Of course you are. You always were a stupid little bitch.”

Vasiliy stops. Just for a second. I see it—shock. The kind he’s trained his whole life to suppress. But there it is. Cracking through the surface.

Matvei sees it too.

His smile is feral now, pressed against my neck like a curse. “It’s yours,” he sneers. “You put your devil’s seed in her. A Volkov heir.”

Vasiliy doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.

But I see it. A flicker of something behind his eyes—shock, fury, the briefest flash of vulnerability. Then it’s gone, buried beneath layers of steel.

When he speaks, his voice is soft. Lethal. “Let her go.”

Matvei’s grip tightens. “You’re not in a position to negotiate.”

Wrong thing to say.

Because the next second, Vasiliy moves.

Not fast.

Not loud.

But with a terrifying precision that makes the air crackle.

“I don’t give warnings twice,” he says, stepping closer, each word laced with death. “You touch her again, and I’ll peel your skin off one inch at a time, starting with your trigger finger.”

Matvei’s gun wavers. Just slightly.

Around us, Vasiliy’s men form a wall. Trained. Ready. The kind of men who don’t need orders to open fire.

Matvei sees it, too. He’s good, but he’s not stupid. He calculates the odds, feels the shift. Feels the noose tighten.

He leans in one last time, his voice a whisper of rot. “This isn’t over.”

“Correct,” Vasiliy replies, gaze burning through him. “Next time, you don’t walk out.”

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